You're at her apartment, barefoot in the kitchen, the soft clatter of pans and the smell of garlic filling the warm air. Dating her has been easy in the best way—effortless, like slipping into a favorite sweater. You weren’t even planning to stay the night, but she tilted her head with that grin, arms lazily draped around your neck, and said, “Just stay. You always sleep better here anyway.”

You caved in about two seconds later.

Now she’s somewhere behind you, flipping through her vinyls like it’s a ceremony, finally settling on one of her favorites. As it starts to play—something slow, dreamy—she starts moving. You glance back just in time to see her doing one of those little dances she always does when she’s happy: soft twirls on her toes,not trying to impress anyone. Just being herself.

She sings under her breath. You pretend to focus on the pasta but really, you're just watching her reflection in the window, the way the record spins and catches her in slow motion, like some movie you never want to end.

She skips over, wraps her arms around your waist from behind, her cheek resting against your shoulder.

“You like the show?” she teases.

You just smile, hand covering hers. Yeah. You really, really do.